INFORMANT Read online

  Generally, our nights out go like this: Ricco picks me up at my place. He brings two or three slinky dresses and sky-high heels. (Thank God my mom’s not here to see me in these get-ups.) I slip them on in my bedroom and then come back into the living room, where he’s sitting, waiting for me to model them for him. I spin around and pretend to enjoy the ritual, pretend that I appreciate his generosity in buying this clothing for me, but in reality, it makes my skin crawl.

  Tonight I’m wearing a stretchy teal blue dress that looks like I applied it to my body with a spray can. Pretty much the opposite of anything I would ever buy for myself, but Ricco likes it. Why shouldn’t he? This is his way of exerting dominance over me. His way of reminding me that I am his to control.

  But the worst part always comes at the end of our ‘date’. Every night, I wait in a state of agitated suspense, certain he’s going to insist on coming in. That’s he’s going to force his way into my bed and claim me in the most animalistic way possible. Strangely enough, that hasn’t happened.

  Sometimes his touch is crude, other times he’s gentle. Either way, I try not to flinch. I swallow my repulsion. Remind myself that my connection to Ricco is what saved Dally. Like a stripper or a porn actress, I try to fix a look of feminine sexual arousal on my face, because that’s what he wants to see. On some level, it must work. When he moves away from me, I never fail to note the dark satisfaction in his gaze.

  As the song ends, I return my attention to the dance floor. Ricco is escorting his latest partner—a gorgeous blonde—back to her table. She looks him up and down, licks her lips, and slips him her number. There are no clocks in the Boom-Boom Room, but I’m guessing it must be near closing time. Obviously she’s hoping to go home with him. When he turns away with a little more than a polite nod and heads back to me, she gives a pretty little pout.

  My frustration swells. It’s ridiculous. I would love for him to ditch me and take her home. Nothing would make me happier. But Ricco’s got some warped code of honor that won’t allow it. Drugs, murder, racketeering—that’s all business. Leaving the woman he brought to a club and taking someone else home—shameful.

  “Having a good time?” he asks as he slides into seat next to me.

  “Absolutely,” I lie.

  His hand finds my thigh beneath the table and gives it a squeeze. “Good.” He glances up, spies the waiter, and signals for another round of Cuba Libre. I bite back a groan. If I never taste another rum and coke in my life, that’s fine with me.

  The gorgeous blonde hasn’t given up. She’s checking us out, clearly trying to figure out what our relationship is.

  “Pretty woman,” I say absently.

  Ricco glances at her, and then turns back with a sneer. “Just another whore,” he clips out.

  Something about the exchange is eerily familiar. I think for a minute, and am suddenly reminded of Stephanie, Beckett’s partner in our chem lab. Another beautiful woman who was assertive in demonstrating her physical attraction to someone. Ricco’s response to her was every bit as vitriolic. It’s odd. Most guys would love for a gorgeous woman to openly flirt, but not him. A warning bell goes off in my head. I know there’s something important there, but I can’t quite grasp it.

  He smiles, leans toward me, and murmurs, “Maybe she makes you jealous, eh?”

  “Not really.” It’s been a long night, I’m bone tired, and the words are out before I can stop them. I instantly realize my mistake.

  His eyes darken and his smile abruptly fades. Moving with snake-like speed, he grabs my wrist, holding me in a grip that’s so tight it’s punishing. It’s all I can do to keep from crying out.

  “You should be very careful, armorcito. Very careful. My father is not a patient man, and neither am I.”

  I try to pull back. “Ricco—”

  “Where is your low-life brother-in-law now, eh? Sun Yee’s shipment will arrive in three days, yet we have heard nothing from him.”

  “You’ll hear. Ronnie’s working on it.”

  “Is he? I hope so. It will be very bad for you both if he fails to do as he promised.” His grip tightens even more. I had no idea Ricco was so strong. It feels as though he’s going to fracture my wrist.

  I wince. I can’t help it. “Ricco, you’re hurting me. I thought we were friends.”

  “Friends?” He makes a tsking sound with his tongue. My hair falls across my face as I struggle to pull away from him. He brushes it back and whispers in my ear, “Is that what you want, armorcito? You want to be friendly? Good. So do I.”

  With that, he hauls me up and drags me with him toward the coat room. It must be later than I thought, for the coat-check girl has already gone home. My relief that we’re finally leaving is tempered by the realization that Ricco is drunk—when he leaned close, the heavy odor of rum clouded his breath. I’ve been discreetly pouring my drinks out, while Ricco’s been downing one after another. I’ll have to convince him to let me drive, and in the mood he’s in now, that won’t be easy.

  With my thoughts thus occupied, I’m totally caught off-guard when he catches me by the shoulders and slams me up against the wall. My breath rushes out of my lungs. I’m knocked off-balance, wedged between a rack of men’s overcoats. The back of my head hits the wall so hard I’m literally seeing stars. When my vision clears and the reality of what just happened finally sinks in, I’m not scared. I’m fucking pissed.

  I bring up my knee, aiming straight for Ricco’s groin. Unfortunately he anticipates my move and blocks me with his thigh. He gives a low chuckle, grabs my opposite wrist and effortlessly pins both above my head.

  “I thought you said you wanted to be friendly,” he says, pressing his body against mine.

  “Get off me.”

  “Make me.”

  “I’m serious, Ricco,” I hiss, staring him straight in the eye. “Get the fuck off me.”

  With his free hand, he slaps me across the face. He slaps me. My bottom lip splits and I taste blood. I go crazy, frantically writhing against him, but he’s got my wrists pinned and my body trapped beneath his. Also, I’m wearing the hideous hooker stilettos he brought me, so my balance is off. When I try to slam my knee into his balls, he blocks me with frightening ease. I cry out, but his mouth covers mine, swallowing my screams. It’s useless anyway. There’s no one here to help me. The music is insanely loud in the club and our bodies are hidden by all the overcoats.

  And, I realize, I tossed away my DEA mike trying to prove a point to Reardon. I’m totally on my own.

  I feel Ricco’s erection press against my hip. He reaches up my dress and fumbles for my panties. Genuine terror overtakes me. Oh, my God. He’s going to rape me. Right here in the coat room. He’s too strong for me to overpower. The more I fight back, the more aroused he gets.

  Wait a minute.

  The more I fight back, the more aroused he gets.

  With that hideous thought, a bolt of realization suddenly strikes me. The warning bell that sounded earlier suddenly makes sense. For weeks, I’ve wondered why he never saw through me. I’m not a good actress. My sexual interest has been so thinly feigned it’s absurd. I’ve had it backwards the whole time. Ricco never bought my play-acting. Like his Uncle Juan, he doesn’t want a willing partner. He wants me because I don’t want him. My reluctance, my lack of genuine arousal, excites him.

  I immediately stop struggling. Instead, I lean into him. “Am I getting it right?” I murmur. “Is this doing it for you?”

  He pulls back slightly, frowns.

  “Or do you want me to pretend to fight harder?” I writhe a bit more. In a voice that’s falsely high, I say with a giggle, “Stop, Ricco, stop.”

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  I shrug. “Don’t worry about it. It’s no big deal. Lots of guys can’t get hard by themselves. They need to playact. Is this what you need to do to get it up? To pretend?”

  “Shut up. Shut the fuck up.”

  “Ricco, it’s no big deal.” I give an impatient si
gh. “Is it working? Is your little Willy Wonka’d yet?” I purse my lips and shake my breasts “Or do you need me to take out my big, soft Oompa-Loompas?”

  His face contorts. Dark rage flashes through his eyes. He releases my wrists and draws back his fist, but this time I see the blow coming and strike first. I lift my leg and drive my stiletto heel directly into the arch of his foot. When he doubles over, I slam my fist upward, straight into his Adam’s apple.

  He reflexively gags. I shove past him and flee the club, running as fast as I can into the night.

  This is my second time running away from Ricco. The third time I won’t be so lucky.

  Day Eighty-Six

  Morning

  “Morning, Sunshine!” Brad Morris sings out.

  I stifle a yawn, shove back my blanket, and groggily sit up. Another day gone and I’m still alive. No small miracle.

  Ever since my disastrous evening at the Boom-Boom Room, I’ve been afraid to go home. I’m in hiding, and my choices of where to stay are limited. Ricco has heard me talk about the Karma, so I can’t go there. Hotels are out—a credit card could easily be traced—and I didn’t want Ricco to follow me to Ronnie’s. Beckett’s would be even worse. Definitely not the right time for Ricco to discover that I’m sharing a bed with a DEA agent.

  So I’ve been crashing on the sofa in Brad’s office at SFSU. I made a frantic phone call after my ‘date’ with Ricco. Brad picked me up and brought me here. Talk about a reluctant hero. It’s all right, though. He came through and I’m thankful for it. Something about the subterranean cinder block walls surrounding me, combined with campus police patrolling the grounds at night, gives me a (false) sense of security. I know this isn’t real (if Miguel Diaz wanted me dead, I’d be dead). But I’m still alive, so at least it’s working for the time being. Good enough.

  Brad passes me a cup of Starbucks, a chocolate-chip scone, and a fruit cup. He slips behind his desk with his fat-free decaf mochaccino and studies me over the rim of his cup. “No offense, darling, but you look like seven kinds of shit.”

  “Now why would I take offense at that?”

  I send him a small smile, and he smiles back at me. Amazing. It almost—almost—feels like he could be a friend.

  I do look like hell, though. There are dark circles under my eyes and my mouth is still tender and bruised. I say I’ve been sleeping on Brad’s office sofa, but very little sleep has actually occurred. Generally I just toss and turn all night. Sometimes I get up and pace the room, wistfully examining the Study Abroad posters that are meant to take the place of windows.

  The posters show groups of exuberant college students with their arms linked over each other’s shoulders. The Great Wall of China looms behind one group. Another set of students is on a safari in Kenya, yet another is sailing in Fiji. There’s Rome, Paris, Machu Picchu. He’s got posters all over the place—posters that practically scream, Have Fun And See the World While You Can, Before Life Drags You Down!

  Of course, it’s too late for me. I went from being a bright student pursuing a degree in forensic science, to an informant for the DEA, to someone who’s hiding from the Cuban mob. Hard to fit that on a college transcript. My life has taken a sharp left turn. It feels as though I’ve done nothing these past few days except wait and retrace my steps, trying to pinpoint the exact moment everything went so horribly wrong. Then the futility of the chore strikes me and I’m reminded of what my mom used to tell Jess and me when we were little.

  Nothing’s ever so bad that it can’t get worse. The Porter family motto.

  True enough. At least I’m no longer outfitted in Ricco’s spray-on dress and hooker heels. Brad was thoughtful enough to pick up a few things for me at the local Abercrombie. (The artfully torn jeans, pricey boots, and slouchy sweater are probably better suited to a spoiled suburban teen than to me, but I’m not complaining.) I drag my fingers through my hair and reach for my coffee, sipping it slowly.

  “Any news?” I ask. Although I attempt to be casual, my voice quakes with stress. Sun Yee’s shipment is expected tomorrow.

  “News? What do you mean?” Brad frowns in mock confusion—as though he has no idea what I’m talking about—and quirks a dark blond brow.

  “Fuck you. What’s going on?”

  He laughs, reaches into his pocket and passes me a TracPhone. “It’s already activated. You’ll get one message: a place and a time. After you’ve read it, throw the phone away.”

  My stomach seized. I stare at the phone, slowly turning it over in my hands. Unbelievable. This ridiculous piece of cheap plastic is all that stands between me and oblivion. “That’s it?”

  “Not quite.” He passes me a slip of paper with the name of a foreign bank scrawled across it, accompanied by a string of numbers. “As I recall, there’s still an outstanding balance of forty thousand. Transfer the money into that account, then that little phone will beep.”

  My eyes narrow. “You know, don’t you? You already know exactly where and when Sun Yee is getting his shipment.”

  He reaches for his Starbucks and takes a long sip. “Does it matter?” he asks.

  No, actually. He’s just being practical. I shouldn’t take it personally. The fact is, I may not live long enough to get Brad his money—particularly if I wait until after the throw down between Miguel Diaz and Sun Yee. And I don’t suppose Ricco is going to be all that happy to see me. Beckett’s boss isn’t a big fan of mine, either. Hard to imagine my walking away from this cleanly. Too many ugly scores to settle.

  As I consider that, I tap my fingers against the phone. My gaze flicks back to the Study Abroad posters.

  Life’s an Adventure! Live It While You’re Young!

  “Now that I think about it,” I say, “it’s not too late, is it?”

  “Too late?”

  I tilt my head toward the poster. “Say someone wanted to get away—so far away no one would ever find her again. Exactly how would she go about doing that?”

  Brad studies me. Then he smiles. “That’d be an expensive trip.”

  Naturally. “How expensive?”

  Day Eighty-Six

  Afternoon

  I venture out to take a shower at the campus gym. Until two days ago, I’d never set foot in the women’s locker room, or any of the campus’s extensive recreational facilities. But it’s a short jog from Morris’s office to the gym, so I almost feel safe scurrying over there.

  I understand now why informants are referred to as ‘moles’. It’s not just that we dig our way into underground organizations. It’s an emotional transformation, as well. I live in a world of secrets and shadows. It no longer feels comfortable to walk around in broad daylight. I long for the cover of darkness. I want to bury myself. Hide perpetually out of sight. I tuck a knit cap over my hair and keep my head ducked low as I walk, so as not to draw any undue attention.

  Still, there is a moment when a dark-headed guy suddenly looms in my peripheral vision and I am sure Ricco’s found me. I practically have a heart attack before I realize he’s just an ordinary student on his way to class.

  An ordinary student. Just like I used to be. Impossible to imagine.

  After my shower, I dress and then blow dry my hair with one of the dryers campus provides—the kind that are attached to the tile wall. When I catch a look at myself in the mirror, my heart sinks. Despite the pricey new clothes and hot shower, Brad was right. I look like shit. I could be the poster child for ‘What An Abusive Relationship Looks Like’.

  Ricco did a number on me in the coat closet and it shows. My wrists are bruised, and so is my temple. My lower lip is swollen and cracked, there are dark circles beneath my eyes, and my gaze is haunted.

  Two pretty young women are in the locker room with me. Fortunately, they are too busy dissecting the events of a party the previous evening to pay me any attention. (Amazing to consider that there was once a time in my life when I actually cared about random hook-ups and break-ups.) When they head off to a Zumba class, I dive into the un
locked locker where they stashed their gear and pull out a cosmetics bag. I’ve changed in more ways than one. A year ago I wouldn’t have even considered invading someone else’s privacy. Now I rifle through the stranger’s bag without guilt or remorse.

  First I pile on the concealer and foundation, then I add a touch of pink lip gloss and mascara. I return the cosmetics bag to the locker, pull back and examine my reflection in the mirror. Not great, but it’ll have to do. Beckett is waiting.

  I find him in the café downstairs—the one that sells protein shakes, organic smoothies, and yogurt sprinkled with acai berries and wheat germ. It overlooks the pool deck, so the whole place is vaguely damp and reeks of chlorine.

  Beckett comes to his feet the second he sees me. I move toward him. At first, there is nothing but naked relief on his face at seeing me. Deep satisfaction. Then his eyes narrow and his expression abruptly hardens. The unmistakable light of fury enters his gaze. Apparently I didn’t do as good a job with the make-up as I thought.

  He lifts his hand to touch me. I wince when his fingers lightly brush my temple.

  “Ricco?” he asks.

  The thought of relating everything that happened at the Boom-Boom Room is exhausting. Completely unnecessary, too. We’ve already defined who the bad guys are. Also, I got away before anything really bad happened, so the details don’t matter. It’s all I can do to muster up a tight, silent nod.

  “I’ll kill him,” he softly swears. “I will fucking kill him.”

  “No,” I say. “You won’t. You will do your job. You will put him away. All of them.”

  After days apart, I wanted some time—just a few minutes—alone with Beckett. Turns out I won’t have it. Brad Morris delivered on his promise ten minutes ago.

  I remove the TracPhone from my pocket and show it to him.

  Pier 96. 0100.

  Sun Yee’s shipment is coming in through Pier 96 at one AM. It’s nearly four o’clock now. That means we have less than nine hours to get everything in place. It’s happening.